


Jeeves & The Dragons, or, Uncles In Bloom

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Ankh-Morpork, Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Cute, Diary/Journal, Dragons, Family Bonding, Footnotes, Humor, POV Bertram "Bertie" Wooster, POV First Person, Secret Relationship, Uncle-Nephew Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 21:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17774339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Bertie and Jeeves are affected to leave the old metrop. behind, and take from Pseudopolis off to Ankh-Morpork. This is, of course, in the aid of delivering a dragon, but other plots soon reveal themselves.





	1. Foreword, by H. Vetinari

When my nephew, the author of this tale, told me it was his intention to immortalise the happenings of this past May upon the page, with some vague intention of later publication, I was initially surprised. I had noticed his propensity in meeting him for the first time in twenty years for noting down snatches of conversation in notebooks or the like, but did not realize this went on to a general intention of novelising the events in question.

Bertram, technically my second cousin once removed, apparently pens many of his misadventures into such charming novels as the one before you, that he might – at some later date, as yet to be determined – publish them in neat volumes. The tales, he tells me, are ordinarily of a humorous lilt, and he believes they might bring people joy, owing to his peculiar lifestyle, and the joie de vivre with which he lives it.

Having perused this one at length, I rather agree.

Bertram Wooster, as you will soon discover (or, as you will already know, if you have already taken in one of his books), is a charming young man curiously lacking in such habits as self-preservation or, indeed, what we shall charitably name _common sense_. With that said, however, he is possessed of a genuinely kind soul, and I do find his strange narrative style quite uplifting, as odd as it is, to see one’s life and actions through the eyes of another.

When Bertram came to me, requesting that he might be allowed the permission to pursue this novel’s publication in some years, he entreated that I read it in full before I make my judgement, and read it I did. Initially, his frankness on the page rather perturbed me, as I felt it would be inappropriate that such a book should be published.

There is a philosophy, gaining its appellation, I believe, from a Novelty and Joke Shop on Tenth Egg Street, named _Boffo_ : this philosophy is that you will always retain absolute power over a situation by acting precisely as your fellows expect you to act. As Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, an office I have held for over twenty years, and expect to hold for several more before I am inevitably inhumed by some lucky Assassin (and they _will_ need to be lucky, I assure you), I have always cultivated a very particular outward appearance. I am never seen in a state of embarrassment or undress; I never allow myself to be caught off-guard; and in the event that the former occur, I hold myself with such quiet dignity that those around me feel compelled to cast the events in question from their minds.

In recent years, however – and this shall become apparent as you read on – I have permitted myself more liberties outside of the constraints of my position as Patrician, and, so far as one might when one is balancing the good of the city as best as one can upon one’s regrettably narrow shoulders, I have allowed myself moments to relax behind closed doors.

My nephew is one such individual before which I would permit myself these moments to allow these small recreations, and thus, he has laid them out in the novel before you. For him to publish them while I am Patrician would be quite disastrous, I have no doubt, for my reputation, and therefore the reputation of the city’s, would be in danger, but—

It might be said – and I believe his manservant, Mr Reginald Jeeves, will agree with me, although my own clerk, Mr Rufus Drumknott, claimed immunity to these charms – that my nephew has a particular capacity for a certain despondent look, well-crafted in the deepness of his eyes, the downturn of his mouth, rather reminiscent of a sad puppy. He turned this very expression upon me in begging askance to later publish this novel, and being the kind and doting uncle I am sure you will come to see me as, I assented.

On the condition, of course, that the novel not be published until seven years after the event of my death, and at least seven years after the death of my clerk, Mr Drumknott. Reading over my shoulder, he informs me in a cheerful tone that we shall likely die together, or soon after one another. If this brings you comfort, you are as odd as he is.

I have taken the liberty of, in places, adding some of my own annotations upon the novel; in places, these are corrections or additions of further information that might aid you in your understanding of the events; in other places, they are merely humorous asides I felt relevant. My personal clerk, Mr Drumknott, made his own commentary which, regrettably, is somewhat more acerbic than my own, owing to his powerful personality, but as certain of his asides were quite humorous, I have included a selection of his own annotations.

Enjoy.

_Lord Havelock Vetinari_

_Patrician of Ankh-Morpork_

_& uncle to one Bertram W. Wooster_


	2. Ankh-Morpork, Ankh-Morpork

It all started with a swamp dragon.

Rummy thing, I can tell you, too. I was woken from my bed in the midst of a rather wonderful dream about ice cream or ice custard or ice something or other, and when I woke, there was a swamp dragon in my bed, just— You know, frolicking, burbling, gasping, grunting, going about its swampish, draconic ways, as the animals are so wont to do. I don’t know if you have ever had the misfortune to come face-to-face with one of these abhorrent animals, but I should not wish the displeasure upon you, if it comes to that: they are beastly creatures, composed of nostril more than anything else, with jowly jaws and wet, sticky eyes that look doleful in their clever little reptilian faces, and the things _smoke_.

Now, I might freely admit, I am predisposed to a gasper myself, now and then, but not these little blighters, oh no – they _smoke_ , directly, from the nostrils in question, and if they are allowed to get up speed, so to speak, they shall bubble forth the most ridiculous flames. My good friend, Boko Fittleworth[1], once told me about a fellow who used a swamp dragon as a cigarette lighter, but I must say, I can’t advise it.

Dashed things have no aim at all.

The swamp dragon in question was sitting on my belly, and giving me a rather devilish yellow eye, and I stared it down, doing my best to put a good deal of punch into my own gaze, which was distinctly less yellow and, if I might say so, rather less yellow as well. Its mouth, I noted, having moved the gaze on from the thin wisps of smoke curling up from its nostrils, and suffusing the room with a rather chemical scent, was dribbling at the corners, and this dribble – being as it came from an animal filled with a great deal of flammable fuel at any moment – was dripping onto my bedclothes and coming away steaming, leaving a rather awful mark in the linens.

“Er, Jeeves?” I hazarded.

“Yes, sir?” he asked, materialising, as if by magic (although, of course, not _by_ magic, because he doesn’t hold stock with that sort of thing in the private home) in the doorway, and looking at me unconcernedly. My man Jeeves is my valet – he is, in his own word, my personal _gentleman’s gentleman_. It’s just me and him in our cosy little flat, which rests on Heatherfax Road in central Pseudopolis: I myself, being unmarried, live the comfortable life of a bachelor, and the only staff I keep is Jeeves himself. This, I am informed, is precisely how Jeeves like it.

“Odd thing, Jeeves,” I said. “There seems to be a dragon in my bed.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeeves agreed. “Will that be all, sir?”

“No, Jeeves,” I refuted the man, with some impatience, “that will not be all. _Why_ is there a dragon in my bed?”

“The creatures are predilected toward warmth, sir. It is perhaps the consideration of the creature’s instinctive desire for warmth and shelter that you resemble the volcanic rocks upon which its ancestors crawled—”

“Jeeves,” I said, “Jeeves, stop talking about volcanic rocks and ancestors and the like.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excise volcanic rocks and ancestors entirely from your consciousness.”

“I will endeavour to do so, sir.”

“And tell me why _this_ dragon is in _my_ bed, instead of say, oh, I don’t know, at some dragon sanctuary or what-have-you?”

“This dragon is Lord Finnebad Jibberson Hellit, sir, the third of his name.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed, sir. It is the desire of Mrs Travers that you deliver the animal to Ankh-Morpork.” This was not, in itself, unusual. Mrs Travers – that is to say, my dear aged relative, Aunt Dahlia – was often asking favours of me, or to be more to the point, demanding favours of me whilst I wasn’t even awake, and these sometimes consisted of deliveries. But those deliveries were usually to other villages and towns in the nearest areas on the Sto Plains, or perhaps, on a riveting occasion, to Quirm: not to _Ankh-Morpork_.

“Ankh-Morpork?” I repeated, arching the old eyebrow. “But, Jeeves, Ankh-Morpork is miles and miles away!”

“Yes, sir.”

“It would take days and days of coach travel to get to Ankh-Morpork – I’m not going to do that with a _dragon_ in tow, Jeeves.”

“Perhaps not, sir.”

“Oh, Jeeves, you rascal.”

“Sir?” Jeeves asked, arching the resident eyebrow, and I scowled. I would have sat up in bed and crossed my arms over my chest in a show of some defiance, were it not for the way his lordship was curled up on my belly.

“This is about The _Railway_ ,” I said, emphasising the dastardly capitalisation of the title. My valet regarded me with an expression of innocent incomprehension upon his finely-chiselled features.

Let me explain.

 _The Railway_ was rather new to Pseudopolis – the line had been built in the last year, the tracks laid by a company named the Sto Plains Hygienic Railway Company, and headed by a young chap named, I am told, Dick Simnel. Now, this was a new invention – by laying down tracks with metal and wood, carts arranged in a train could be pushed along them with the assistance of an engine that ran on steam, and the things went jolly well fast. Instead of the journey to Ankh-Morpork taking a little over a week, what with having to swap over horses and rest over night and all this business, the journey would only take perhaps two _days_.

I, unfortunately for my dear valet Jeeves, had had a bad reaction to the train went first we rode it, in that Tuppy Glossop had knocked me out of it whilst having a fit with a policeman, but all of that is a story for quite another day. In any case, I had a sincere aversion to the train, and had done so for nearly three months now: Jeeves, my stalwart companion who is struck with a passion for wanderlust, had been doing his best to get me onto one of these things for a real journey ever since.

Jeeves was not one who strayed away from shifting the cards in his favour, in the event he really wanted something, and he had been struck with some romance over the steam train, having perused the volume written by one Mrs Bradshaw, speaking very warmly upon the subject. I myself am willing to travel, but prefer, I confess, to remain on my home tracks here in Pseudopolis, in safe proximity to the _Drones Club_ , a favoured haunt of mine, and to all my usual amenities.

“I did think, sir, that the railway might be a better method of transport over the coach,” Jeeves admitted, as if he hadn’t planned this out already, as is his wont. “His lordship has already rather offended some of the members of the stable.”

“Oh, _Jeeves_ ,” I oh-Jeevesed, and Jeeves moved forward, taking the scaly beast laid upon my belly and lifting it under its arms. He held it out from his body, that it not struggle or grasp at its suit, but he gave it a very stern look that seemed to put the animal out of the mood of any such s-ing or g-ing: he had a curious effect on many animals, and could ordinarily keep them from grousing unnecessarily. Taking the animal from the room, I heard its little claws make a clatter on the kitchen floor, and then a distant guzzling noise that was perhaps his lordship taking in his morning’s feed…

Sighing as I examined the remnants of my bedsheet, I cast it aside and sat up from the bed. In any case, Jeeves had never liked these sheets anyway, and thought them too colourful for the room. Now, with the addition of some more colours – yellow acid and charred black, as well as some fashionable new holes – I rather agreed.

“Why does Aunt Dahlia want me to deliver an animal like _that_ to Aunt Morpork? Where did she get it?”

“It was Mrs Travers’ assertion, sir, that she had rescued the animal from the estate of Lady Florentine Bishop, who died a week ago. The animal was discovered wandering the family home, and wailing at the loss of its mistress. Mrs Travers intimated the sight rather affected her ordinary composure, and that she wished to see the animal put to a better home.”

“Oh,” I said. I did not like swamp dragons, as a rule, but honestly, one can hardly help feeling a sympathetic pang at the idea of the little blighter, flapping about the lonely house and mourning the loss of the old lady. Lady Bishop, I recalled, had only employed a very elderly butler named Travis and a cook with cataracts named Catrina, and the two had been taken into the home of Lady Bishop’s son and wife, the two of them likely not making mention of the little animal lest they be expected to take care of it. They were notoriously monstrous things to keep, although I had been engaged, in my time[2], to one or two women who were bafflingly mad on them. “Oh, well. That was— Dashed good of her. Taking in the orphaned thing, what. But— Well, why Ankh-Morpork?”

“In Ankh-Morpork, sir, there is an organisation named the Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons. Mrs Travers believes the animal would be happy there, as it is quite incapable of creating flame, sir, given its advanced age.”

“Advanced much, is it?”

“The animal is twenty-two, sir.”

“Is that very old for a swamp dragon?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Oh, but— But, Jeeves,” I said. “There are _things_ to consider, you know. We haven’t anywhere to stay, or what-have-you.”

“On the contrary, sir,” Jeeves said. “Mrs Travers sent word ahead by clacks, to your second cousin, as well as to the Lady Sybil Ramkin-Vimes, who I am told is a great authority on the subject of swamp dragons and their breeding.”

“My second cousin, Jeeves?” I asked, the mind drawing a blank. “Do I have a cousin in Ankh-Morpork?”

Jeeves gave me an expectant look. “I believe you ordinarily call him _Uncle,_ sir, owing to the several decades’ difference in your ages.”

“I don’t have an uncle in Ankh-Morpork, Jeeves,” I said. “What _rot_.”

Jeeves gave me the patient look he always gave me when he thought I was being a fathead, but couldn’t say so, owing to the natural feudal spirit and such. “Lord Vetinari, sir?” he asked, his tone full of gentle reminder. “The Patrician of the city therein?”

“Oh, Uncle _Havelock_!” I said, clapping my hands together. “Oh, I haven’t seen him in _years_ , Jeeves!”

“No, sir,” Jeeves agreed.

“Not since I was— Gosh,” I said, allowing Jeeves to help me on with my suitjacket – he had laid out, I noticed, a tweed suit for travelling, having anticipated that I should agree to go on the train. He can be jolly well _assumptive_ , can Jeeves, if assumptive is the word I want[3]. “Good gods, Jeeves, I don’t believe I’ve seen Uncle Havelock since before my parents died, so I must have been five or six[4]! He wasn’t, er, _Patrician_ then, of course.”

“No, sir.”

“He was _employed_.”

“An accomplished Assassin, sir,” Jeeves supplied, and I nodded the old noggin in understanding.

Uncle Havelock, I recalled, had been somewhat of a favourite of mine as a very young lad, always a chap liberal with the snappy jokes and the sartorial comments: in my mind, he was a reserved sort of bird, about as tall as your average venerable oak, all dressed in black, and he had eyes like glaciers. The childish recollection does rather make a vivid picture of a man, although it is not always accurate – certainly, I knew, his face was on stamps and what-not on post that came from Ankh-Morpork, but—

Well, a postage stamp was scarcely bigger than Jeeves’ thumb nail, and while I had no doubt the depiction was accurate in the area of my uncle’s fine features, it rather neglected to show the body. I assumed, sensibly, that he was no taller than any other uncle, let alone as tall as a tree, but when a child holds an uncle in high esteem, he rather grows with appropriate height within the mind, what?

He had read to me, I recalled, on his visit to Pseudopolis – he had been visiting _his_ Aunt Bobbi (who I also call Aunt), and had rather taken up with the old Wooster household, and with me particularly, as my sister was abroad at the time at the Quirm College for Young Ladies. I had rushed hither and yon with his elderly dog at the time, one I vividly envisaged even now, but could not recall the name of: a wire-haired little beast with more than a little _oomph_ in him, who could be off like a shot after a ball in two shakes of a cat’s whisker, but not his own, as he had misplaced quite a few in his venerability[5]. I believe Uncle Havelock, not being as bored of the young Wooster’s favoured book at the time as my poor nanny, who I am told had read the dashed thing to me some twenty times in the past week, also read to me before I retired of an evening for bed.

In short, I had quite liked him.

With that said, in the twenty-something years since last we had spoken, he had become the Patrician – that is to say, the absolute ruler of – Ankh-Morpork, the biggest city-state on the Sto Plains, and indeed, on the disc, some ways hubwards, and set upon the edge of the Circle Sea.

I had never been to Ankh-Morpork before. You might ask why a cultured young gentleman such as myself, having travelled all about the Sto Plains and to Quirm, and even further abroad across the Circle Sea, had never been to that city of cities, Ankh-Morpork. The simple fact of the matter was that Ankh-Morpork, alas, was rather awful. It had changed a lot, I had been told, since my uncle had taken on the reins, so to speak, but I recalled, quite vividly, various family members making me promise not to ever go when I was a little boy, and to stay in the old metrop.

Well.

“I say,” I said. “Did they reply?”

“Lord Vetinari responded with a clacks to say he would be very pleased to receive us, sir, and that he should be very pleased to see you. Lady Ramkin-Vimes said she would be quite glad to, as she put it in the clacks, _put us up_ for the weeks we plan to stay, sir. If it meets with your approval, sir, I have also taken the liberty of applying in advance for an insurance policy with the Guilds of Thieves.” Since my uncle had become the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, he had actually begun to regulate _everything_ , including such things as crime and what-not – the Thieves’ Guild had always existed, but he’d sort of encouraged them out into the light, to encourage them to pay taxes and such[6]. One could apply for what was called, Jeeves assured me, although my friends called it something quite different, an _insurance_ policy, to protect one from thievery, robbery, and such.

“Oh. Good shout, Jeeves.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And the tickets for the railway?”

“Bought, sir.”

“The suitcases packed, I expect?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Only thing left to do is eat a spot of breakfast, I suppose?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“You are a marvel, Jeeves, but I do resent you.”

“Sir?”

“Really, Jeeves. A _dragon_.”

“Mrs Travers did infer the animal was quite well-behaved, sir.”

“Oh, she did, did she?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect when you open that kitchen door, Jeeves, said a. will be munching away at the kitchen table.”

We had been making our way down the vestibule, and Jeeves pushed open the doorway to the kitchen: our gazes naturally alighted upon the animal, who had curled up, semi-successfully, in the wide frying pan still hot from the eggs Jeeves had been frying. It was snoring gently.

“You bribed it, I suppose,” I said.

“The animal cannot consume any of the furniture, sir,” Jeeves said helpfully. “It is quite toothless.”

“Oh,” I said. “Poor Lord Finnebad. I don’t suppose Aunt Dahlia has an ulterior motive here, sir? With the dragon, I mean?”

“I had heard, sir,” Jeeves said as he entered the kitchen, removing the shiny lid from my plate of bacon, eggs, and toast, that he might deposit said plate before me at the dining table, “that Mrs Travers is attempting to encourage Lady Ramkin-Vimes to suggest some writers for her magazine.”

“ _Ah_ ,” I said, understanding. My Aunt Dahlia, you must understand, has the run of a weekly publication named _Milady’s Boudoir_ , and it is distributed all about Pseudopolis, talking much on the subject of clothing and women’s thoughts and things – I had once penned a rather good article for it myself, all about what the well-dressed man is wearing. She was, however, constantly desirous of more individuals to write for it, and evidently, this Ramkin-Vimes woman was the well-connected sort. “Very astute of her.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeeves agreed, setting the plate before me.

“You won’t let anyone throw me off the train, Jeeves?” I asked, sternly.

“I shall endeavour to dissuade such things, sir,” he said softly. Jeeves, despite his sometimes standoffish nature, being as he was a student of all that was _propitious_ , if propitious is the word I mean[7], was rather fond of me, I felt, and sometimes, he turned on me a small, private smile that made me feel as if I was quite on top of the whole world, perhaps balancing on the head of Great A’Tuin and doing a little dance there.

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I said.

The sweet intimacy of the motion was interrupted by a loud clatter from the kitchen, and Jeeves coughed politely. He had a habit of doing this. He had the politest coughs on the disc. “I believe his lordship has fallen from the hob, sir.”

“Yes, Jeeves. Best see he’s alright.”

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

If you’re one of those people reading this because of my uncle’s name, instead of my own, I suppose you might be going to yourself, “It’s all very well that he’s swanning about with steam trains and dragons and such forth, but I dashed well wish I knew who this young Wooster chap _was_ ,” and so it occurs that perhaps I should tell you. Best to get it out of the way and all that.

My name, as you might have surmised from the by-line on the book, is _Bertram Wilberforce Wooster_ , but all my friends call me Bertie, as I’m sure you will discover as this book goes further on: I think I’d best give you a sort of description of myself, and of my faithful companion, that you might sort of judge us in the old mind’s eye, rather than thinking of us as two nebulous, if nebulous is the word I mean[8], shapes, one of them a bit fumbling and excitable, but good-hearted, and the other sort of dark and handsome and, occasionally, somewhat soupy in his tones.

I myself, Bertie, am quite a tall chap possessed of lithe limb and what not – I am, as my Aunt Agatha (a rather terrifying bird, and one you should be glad not to meet in the course of this book) describes me, _gangling_ , and am very long of leg and arm. I possess sort of blondish brownish curlyish hair, the hair itself being quite average, and I am in possession of two eyes that I would describe as _blue_ , but that an ex-fiancée of mine[9] had once described as, “deep limpid pools filled to the brim with sapphires,” whatever that means. Women have told me before that I am quite handsome, and Jeeves has confirmed these accusations: my nose is quite sharp, ditto the chin, but I possess good cheekbones (so far as cheekbones can be good or bad, I haven’t the foggiest), and I am told I have rather fulsome eyelashes for a gentleman.

Jeeves is handsome in a rather real, rugged way: his features are very finely chiselled, and he is a broad-shouldered fellow with clever hands and an even cleverer brain – so clever, in fact, that his head rather sticks out a bit at the back, that it might accommodate this lavish amount of brain matter. He has a rather lovely crop of black hair, which he keeps slicked down with brilliantine, and he has the sort of dark eyes that could stop anyone in his tracks, although his fists are equally good at bringing about such a stop, when it comes to that. He is about seven or so years my senior, I myself being less than a year shy of thirty years old.

So, there you are!

Now that you have a vision of us in mind, imagine us stepping from the steam train and into the main station in Ankh-Morpork, because that was where we were.

The journey from Pseudopolis had gone more splendidly than I could have hoped – Jeeves actually got us passage on the sleeper train, meaning that we were actually able to sleep as the train kept rocking along toward the grand city, and I _must_ say, without anybody doing their best to throw me overboard, I rather loved it.

There was a curious romance, I felt, to watching the lovely countryside, all this cabbage country and whatnot, pass one by as one sat back against the carriage seat, and I felt myself quite warmed by the loveliness of my surroundings. This somewhat faded as we entered Ankh-Morpork, which…

The best way to describe Ankh-Morpork, I feel, is as _unclean_. When we stepped from the train, Jeeves holding our cases, me with the venerable Lord Finnebad in a cat basket Jeeves had procured before we had embarked, I very nearly fainted, and was only prevented in falling to the ground by my valet’s quick reflexes in catching the old master. The stench of the place was so overpowering as to make the eyes water, and to make the mouth dry out: I felt it was so thick as to make it rather difficult to walk through the street, and I had to take some moments to adjust.

Many moments, alas, I did not have, for Jeeves and I were soon accosted by some gentlemen in rather impressive armour, with plumes and everything, who told us we had an appointment. We said, yes, indeed, at the Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons, and they said, oh no, you have an appointment before that, and we said, what? And they said, get in the coach.

As they say, when in Quirm, do as the Quirmians do, what?

Of course, we were in Ankh-Morpork, so we protested, and our protests were not met well, and we were bundled, rather roughly, into the coach in question.

“A bit thick, Jeeves, eh?” I asked.

“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves said, somewhat ruffled. For Jeeves, of course, _somewhat ruffled_ means that his suit had a single crease visible, which he soon smoothed away with his typical lightning quickness.

We were bundled out again before a gigantic building, which could only have been called palatial – I say this, of course, because it was the Palace. The guards rather shoved Jeeves and I up the stairs, where we were met with an extremely little men who, I recognised immediately, had gone to the Jeevesian school of composure.

A little below five feet and four, he wore a very neatly pressed suit, and there was one of those old-fashioned clerk’s robes on his shoulders, rather like a justice wears: there was a rather snazzy pin through his tie, shaped, bizarrely, after a paperclip, and he wore golden-rimmed spectacles. His cheeks, it seemed, were perennially slightly pink, and he had very severe features, including an aquiline nose. Like Jeeves’, his hair shone with brilliantine, and looked as if it had been parted with a ruler, it was so straight[10][11].

“Mr Wooster, Mr Jeeves,” he said, in such a quiet voice I had to rather strain the ears to hear him.

“What ho,” I said. He looked at me as if I had spat out a few snakes onto his nice, clean carpet.

“You are Mr Drumknott, I take it?” Jeeves asked, and the little man gave a neat nod of his head. I watched, fascinated, as Jeeves shook his hand. He looked somewhere in the regions of 30[12], and I could see the beginnings of laughter lines around his mouth, as well as a sort of furrow at his brow.

“Indeed,” he said. “Rufus Drumknott: I am Lord Vetinari’s personal clerk. He should like for you to go in to meet him immediately, Mr Wooster.”

“Oh?” I asked. “Well, er, Drumknott, I’m afraid we’ve got to go and…” I trailed off. Mr Drumknott was looking at me with a rather blank expression on his face, but I fancied that in his brown eyes burned a bit of the old hellfire and brimstone: he had the sort of severe gaze that rather made one feel like one was turning swiftly to stone before him, and it reminded me immediately of my Aunt Agatha. I swallowed. “Er… Yes, well. Of course. Where is Uncle Havelock?”

“Lord Vetinari is currently in the Rats’ Chamber,” Mr Drumknott said.

“The— The, er, the what now?” I asked, baffled, but Mr Drumknott was already leading the way, and I followed after him, feeling Jeeves at my shoulder in my pursuit. Mr Drumknott, I noticed, despite his keenly sensible suit and his sensible clerk’s robe, wore _exceedingly_ strange footwear – he wore the sort of boots one would expect someone far more active than a clerk to wear, and his footsteps were so delicate I couldn’t hear them as he walked. It was dashed odd, truth be told.

He knocked upon a door that seemed much like many of the other doors in the long corridor, and at the, “Come in!”, he opened it. Now, it was at this moment, I am sorry to say, that the wicker cat basket in which I had been carrying Lord Finnebad, third of his name, rather gave in. The thing had, I am sure you will sympathize, rather been subjected to a lot more than it was designed for in the past two days, and his lordship’s acidic saliva seemed to have burned enough of a hole in the dashed thing, even without any flame, that he was able to wriggle free, and wriggle free the blighter did.

As I crossed over the threshold and into the so-called _Rats’ Chamber_ , which was mercifully free of any rats, he threw himself into the air, flapping wildly, and threw me off my balance: I careened violently, with a loud crash, into a table, upsetting a vase of flowers and dousing myself in their water.

Yelping, I fell backward, where I landed hard upon the Wooster rump on the carpet, and realized, with a dim and creeping embarrassment, that I had quite an extensive audience.

The Rats’ Chamber was so called, apparently, because it was decorated all about with rats. Dashed odd thing, I thought at the time, and still think now: there were rats in a sort of fresco, dancing on the ceiling; there were rats on the wallpaper; there were rats on the carpet, even! Odd bird, is my Uncle Havelock.

Around the table, out of which stuck quite a tremendous axe as an unconventional centrepiece, were about a dozen well-dressed people, mostly in their fifties and sixties, each looking at me with expressions of horror and perplexity, and I watched, my mouth agape, as the clerk known as Drumknott swept neatly into the room, grasping Lord Finnebad out of the air and giving him the same sort of stern look Jeeves had, popping him back into his basket.

At the other end of the room, the head of the table stood up, and I stared up at him.

He was about the same height as me, perhaps six feet and two, and I noticed with a dawning comprehension that we were rather alike in figure – he, too, possessed a lanky form, although, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me saying so, he inhabited it rather more gracefully than I do myself. Moving with a silent elegance, he stepped around the table, his hand alighting on the back of the chair of an extremely lovely woman in he fifties, whose dress left rather little to the imagination: wearing a black robe, which was somewhat dusty, I noticed he had a goatee, and black hair that was beginning to give way to silver at his temples. He did not especially resemble a venerable oak tree, although his eyes were as glacial as I recalled, if not more so.

“What ho, Uncle,” I said weakly, feeling a flush begin to light up my cheeks.

The man smiled. It was a very small smile, merely a slight upturning of thin lips at their very edges, but his icy eyes softened with what I fancied was an avuncular warmth. “Hello, Bertram,” he said softly. “So kind of you to drop in.”

Awkwardly pulling myself to my feet, I looked between the offset vase of daffodils, which were dripping water over the edge of the table, to the errant dragon, who was looking dolefully out of his basket like a chap from behind bars, the basket held in Mr Drumknott’s arms. Just behind Mr Drumknott, at his shoulder, stood Jeeves. The two looked rather funny side-by-side, as if Mr Drumknott had been reproduced from Jeeves in miniature, with a little extra pigment added around the cheeks.

“Er,” I said. “Sorry, old thing. Lord Finnebad isn’t the most well-behaved bunny in the basket, if you take my meaning.”

“Indeed I do.” Stepping forward, he put one of his hands, which were thin and blue-veined, upon my shoulder, and turned to look at the room. They were all looking at me in some awe, as if I was some hitherto undiscovered creature from the oceans deep. “ _This_ ,” he said pleasantly, “is my nephew, Mr Bertram Wooster. He is visiting from Pseudopolis. Bertram, these are some of the Guild heads of Ankh-Morpork.”

“What ho, all,” I said.

This was met with some expressions of deep disapproval from quite a few of the denizens of the room, and a rather cheerful-looking fellow with a head of white hair said, “This is your _nephew_ , Havelock? I wasn’t aware you had any family other than your aunt.” I didn’t much care for his voice. It had an oily quality that rather set my teeth on edge, although I, of course, kept my cheerful smile plastered neatly on my face. This chap, I was later informed, was Lord Downey, the head of the Assassins’ Guild.

“Oh, weren’t you, Humphrey?” Uncle Havelock replied, sounding rather insincere. “Goodness. I merely wished to ensure all of you knew _precisely_ who my nephew was.” He spoke in a sort of delicate, sharp voice that rather made me think of spiders’ webs being spun about a group of flies. “That you might each… _be aware_.”

I watched in fascination as one or two of the people in the room shifted uncomfortably in their seats, apparently not keen to meet my aged relative’s eye, and Uncle Havelock turned me slightly to look at him, smiling once more.

“Do wait in my office, would you, Bertram?”

“Yes, Uncle, alright. Dashed sorry again about the vase.”

“It is of no great import,” Uncle Havelock said, and he patted me on the shoulder, gesturing for his man to lead me out, and lead me out Mr Drumknott did, bringing me down the corridor and into an office.

It was rather a bare office, I noted. There were some bookshelves, of course, and a chaise long in the corner, as well as two desks: one was my uncle’s, and the other, I wagered, belonged to his clerk, as it was smaller, and set nearby. Mr Drumknott had placed Lord Finnebad’s basket on it, with a little steel tray underneath so that his saliva wouldn’t burn at the wood.

I noticed upon my uncle’s desk a little mug, painted with the slogan: **To the world’s Greatest Boss** , and I smiled.

“A little gift for the old master, eh, Drumknott?” I asked. Mr Drumknott, who had been straightening up some papers that already seemed rather straight to me, looked at me quizzically, and then followed my gaze to the mug. I fancied I saw his cheeks colour slightly, and he gave me a soupy look to rival one of Jeeves’.

“Quite,” he said tersely.

I looked askance to Jeeves, who seemed as baffled as I was, as far as Jeeves can look baffled – he sort of raises one eyebrow in slight quizzicality, and that’s rather the end of it.

“Er, Mr Drumknott?” I asked.

“Mr Wooster,” Drumknott said.

“Mind if I ask you a question, old bean?”

There was a short pause. “If you wish, Mr Wooster,” he said, giving me a funny sort of look[13].

“What was that business of, er, introducing me to the guild heads there? Sort of— You know, showing off the old Wooster corpus?”

“Oh,” Mr Drumknott said. “Well, Mr Wooster, news will travel rather quickly as to your relation to the Patrician. I expect he merely wishes to ensure you’re suitably protected.”

“Oh, I see,” I said, although I did not see at all. “Very protective lot, are they?”

“Of their interests, Mr Wooster, yes,” Drumknott said.

“Don’t frighten my nephew, Drumknott,” Uncle Havelock said as he entered the room, closing the door neatly behind him.

“Oh, I wasn’t frightened, Uncle,” I assured him.

“Oh? Well, in that case, do frighten my nephew, Drumknott,” Uncle Havelock said.

“Several of those people would think it in their best interests to have you killed, Mr Wooster,” Drumknott explained, adjusting his shirt cuffs as Lord Vetinari stepped neatly past him, moving to sit down at his desk. “Indeed, there are a great many people in the city of Ankh-Morpork who should like to have you kidnapped for the purposes of torturing you for information, or, indeed, murdering you in the hopes that it might upset his lordship.”

“Oh,” I said. “Bit thick, that. Ah, well, I’m sure it won’t come to that.” I spoke with easy confidence, and Mr Drumknott looked at me with the old brow somewhat furrowed, his expression confused. “No one’s ever tried to kill me before. Er. Well. Not strictly true, I suppose. But no one’s ever gotten close!”

“Is he always possessed of this sort of confidence, Mr Jeeves?” Uncle Havelock asked.

“Yes, sir,” Jeeves answered.

“Oh, good,” he said. “Mr Drumknott, do take Lord Finnebad for a moment…”

“Some tea, sir?” Drumknott asked.

“If you would,” Vetinari said.

“Sugar and milk for you, Mr Wooster?” Drumknott asked.

“Oh, I say, yes, please,” I said. Drumknott looked at me with an expressionless face, but I fancied I saw some hint of disapproval in it. “If that’s alright?”

“Quite alright, Mr Wooster,” Drumknott said, and he came to the door. “Mr Jeeves?”

Jeeves gave us a small inclination of his head, and he fell into step behind Drumknott, out into the corridor.

I stood alone in the midst of what was apparently named the _Oblong Office_ , standing across from my uncle. He did look rather intimidating, I suppose – nothing compared to my Aunt Agatha, but quite an intimidating sort, with a sort of potentially frightening air, if you were on the look out for that sort of thing. Under his desk, curled up in a basket, I spied a soft-looking, rather fat, dog.

“This is Mr Fusspot,” Uncle Havelock said. “He is the chairman of the Royal Bank.”

“Is he?” I asked. “He’s done very well for himself.”

“Do sit down, Bertram,” Uncle Havelock said, and I did. “We have much to discuss.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed.”

“Righto, then, uncle. Discuss away!” He looked at me for a long moment, and I could read absolutely nothing in his face. Then, he leaned forward, and began the discussion in question.

 

[1] Mr “Boko” Fittleworth, of Sto Bumsteeple, is actually named George Webster Fittleworth. Attempts to determine why he has received this curious sobriquet have been met only with exclamations of, “Oh, don’t you know Boko? I thought everybody knew Boko! You know, there’s no reason, er, exactly. Boko is just… Boko,” and other words to this effect. _(H.V.)_

[2] My nephew, it might be noted, has been engaged to several dozen young women, and has thus far eluded the prospect of marriage quite nimbly. (H.V.)

[3] It might be. The word presumptuous might, however, be more appropriate. (R.D.)

[4] It was the August of his seventh year. I was to ascend to the Patricianship the following November. (H.V.)

[5] The dog was named Grenadine, and she was a fox terrier. She very much enjoyed Bertram’s company in kind, and spent much of my visit to Pseudopolis blanketing the boy’s lap, if he could be convinced to remain still for any length of time. (H.V.)

[6] Encourage as I might, the Guilds of Ankh-Morpork are as reluctant to submit to taxation as my young nephew is to submit to a marriage, and as nimble at avoiding them. (H.V.)

[7] Absolutely not. Mr Wooster is referring to _propriety_ , and not propitiousness (a synonym for favourable). An appropriate synonym may perhaps be “respectable,” or “decorous”. (R.D.)

[8] Close enough. (R.D.)

[9] One, at the time, Miss Madeline Basset, now bonded to Mr Augustus Fink-Nottle in matrimony. (H.V.)

[10] This is a ridiculous assertion. I haven’t needed to use a ruler to get the parting correct since I was a child. (R.D.)

[11] You will be glad, but doubtless not surprised, to know Mr Drumknott did not understand at all why I laughed, for some minutes, after reading the above annotation. (H.V.)

[12] At the time of the events, I was 35. (R.D.)

[13] I had never in my life before this point been referred to as “old bean”, nor any similar appellation, and the happenstance rather stopped my train of thought. (R.D.)

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open.


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